00 - Templar's Acre

by Michael Jecks

  Edgar Bakere was among them.

  A tall fellow with a lazy smile, Edgar had been apprenticed to a London baker, but he had never enjoyed the trade. His mind was not attuned to kneading and setting dough to rise, nor to wakening a little after Matins to set the fires in the ovens, ready for a long day of sweating exhaustion. He had long dreamed of leaving England’s damp chill, and making his fortune in a land where the sun shone. A place where he would not have to slave, where others would do the menial work for a change.

  No, he was not going to be a baker. He was determined upon that. It was why he had invested what little money he had in taking lessons from a Master of Defence, learning how to handle a sword, a stick, or even his fists. while doing this, he had heard of Outremer, the land where men could go and find themselves a patch of land, and where, if they could hold on to it, they could become barons.

  It was such a relief to be off the ship and on stable ground again that Edgar could have kissed the sands. He and the other men were only the advance: thousands more were being recruited from Lombardy to London, and before long more transports would reach this shore, full of men eager to protect Acre.

  Their ship was a heavy-built transport, and to allow the horses to disembark, the master had beached the vessel. While the passengers copied Edgar and descended the ladders to the shore, shipmen were hacking at the caulking about the door in the hull. There were two other ships beached alongside, and Edgar eyed them without affection. It would, he decided, be many long years before he would willingly submit to sailing again.

  Three bodies were being removed from the ship now. He saw the first thrown over the side to dangle from a rope under the arms, gradually being lowered. That was the man who had got into a fight after a gambling dispute. He had been stabbed, and bled to death in front of everyone. No one had gone to his aid. Then there was the body of the young mother, who had simply gone to sleep and not woken up. Even now her child, a boy of perhaps ten years, was wailing as his mother was let down. Why she had sought to come here, Edgar had no idea. Perhaps she was a prostitute, and believed the tales of a land flowing with milk and honey? A whore could make a good living in a town like this, especially with an army arriving. Women of that profession always followed an army.

  The third man to be set down on the sandy shore was the kindly-faced old fellow who had befriended Edgar on the first day, and who had slept at Edgar’s side, eaten with him, and shared biscuits with him during their passage.

  Edgar watched the body being deposited alongside the others, and then rose, looking about him. The city lay a scant half-mile distant, and he hefted his pack, adjusted the knife at his belt, and set off. He didn’t think of the man in the sand again. The man whom he had discovered in the middle of the night going through his pack searching for money or gold, and whom he had strangled.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Baldwin saw the first of the Lombards arrive.

  Ivo had gone travelling, first to Cyprus and thence to Tuscany. The horse-dealer had been instructed to acquire more beasts for the Temple – be they destriers for the knights, or faster, lighter horses for the Turcopoles and archers. Before leaving, he had specifically instructed Baldwin to stick with someone like Sir Jacques when he went outside, and to avoid any contact with Lady Maria and Buscarel.

  Baldwin had no desire to see either. For Lady Maria his infatuation was entirely flown, and he knew he must fully recover before repaying the Genoese shipmaster for his beating.

  ‘Master Baldwin, would you join me for a ride?’ Roger asked one morning. He had knocked, and now stood gazing about him with interest while Pietro eyed him with dislike.

  ‘Gladly,’ Baldwin said, grunting as he rose from his seat. He was still stiff and sore. ‘But I don’t have a horse.’

  ‘A horsemaster’s house without a horse?’ Roger laughed, but then jerked his head. ‘Come, I will arrange for a beast for you. We ride east. Bring your sword.’

  Baldwin would not have ridden outside the city without his sword, but on hearing those words, he looked at Roger askance. There was a subtle meaning there, he felt sure, and he sensed the thrill of impending action. He remembered Ivo’s injunction not to embarrass him, but looking at Roger Flor, he found it hard to believe the stories of his robbing people. Tolls were one thing, robbery and murder quite different. He had a devil-may-care look about him, but that was the way of Templars.

  In any case, he was Baldwin’s friend.

  There were more men in the streets than usual. Some hundreds of scruffy pilgrims were straggling up from the harbour, and he gazed at them with disapproval. They were – as most travellers were after days on a cramped ship – filthy. Lank, greasy hair framed faces that were pinched from lack of food, while some had been unfortunate enough to befoul themselves.

  It only served to make Baldwin realise how disgusting he himself must have been when he disembarked from the Falcon. He tried to steer clear of the newcomers as he strode on by with Roger Flor.

  A steady rhythmic tread intruded upon his thoughts, and he stood aside to permit four Templar men-at-arms to pass. All clad in their brown uniform habits with the red crosses, they marched in step – a picture of military efficiency that was particularly pleasing among these raggle-taggle Lombards, Baldwin thought, as he trailed behind Roger down the hill towards the Temple.

  On the way, he saw a familiar figure with a white cloak and red cross. ‘Sir Jacques,’ he called. ‘God’s blessings on you.’

  ‘And on you,’ the older man responded. ‘You are not approaching the Genoese quarter, I hope?’

  Baldwin pulled a face. ‘No. We are going for a ride outside the city.’

  ‘That is good,’ Sir Jacques said, but there was little humour in his eyes as he surveyed Roger Flor. ‘Beware, my friends. These fellows are new to the city, and I do not think they appreciate the land in which they have landed. I fear riots.’

  Edgar Bakere walked into Acre by the gate at the Patriarch’s Tower. It was a good city, he reckoned.

  The arrival of the crusaders, however, was no cause of joy to the citizens. One or two spat on the ground as the Lombards tramped past. Edgar walked about for some while, wondering where he should go, before finding his way to the castle.

  At the door lounged three bored sentries. The castle was not so large as the King’s White Tower in London, but with the strength of the city’s surrounding walls, that was hardly surprising. Defences here would serve only to protect the castle’s inhabitants against the city, not from outside attack. If city walls that thick didn’t suffice to keep invaders out, the castle could hardly hope to do so.

  ‘I am here to serve in the defence of the city,’ Edgar said self-importantly.

  ‘Good for you,’ was the unpromising response of a guard. ‘Hope you enjoy it.’

  ‘I want to join the garrison.’

  ‘As it happens, just now we don’t have any vacancies.’

  Edgar frowned. ‘Where do I go, then?’

  The guard sighed heavily and thrust his thumbs into his belt. He had a pitying look in his eyes as he studied Edgar. ‘Anywhere you like, mate, so long as it’s not here. Pick an inn, all right? There are plenty all over the city.’

  ‘But I don’t have much money,’ Edgar said. He wore an apologetic smile, but in his heart a resentful anger was kindling.

  ‘Then get a job,’ the guard said. ‘Now piss off. We have work to do.’

  Edgar walked down the street, past idling servants, merchants with gold gleaming on fingers and about their necks, and then almost bumped into a party of men-at-arms, but not warriors such as he had seen before.

  They were Saracens, and wore swords with curved blades. He eyed them with interest, wondering how it could be that representatives of the enemies of the city could have gained entrance. And then he saw to his astonishment that they were making their way to the castle! The guard who had been so insulting to him, stood aside and bowed to them.

  This was incredible. Edgar walked on
more slowly as he digested the fact that the people from whom he had expected to defend the city, actually lived inside it.

  All over Acre, the inns were filling quickly. Edgar soon learned that to the local people, a fresh influx of pilgrims and crusaders meant only one thing: profit to the men who rented rooms and sold food. The place was hideously expensive, the cost of bread and meats much higher even than in Lombardy, where he had taken ship. The people here were acquisitive to a degree Edgar had never experienced, and he was shocked to see how the innkeepers tried to gull the Lombards – and himself. Prices were inflated, and while many tried to haggle and dicker, they ended up paying with sullen resentment when they realised they had little choice.

  He then had a bit of luck. There was an inn in the Genoese quarter with a stable at the back. Just now, the inn was almost full, he learned, but when the innkeeper heard why Edgar was in the city, he immediately professed himself delighted to meet a brave warrior come to protect him and his family.

  ‘You can take some space in my hayloft, if you want,’ he said.

  By that stage, Edgar would have taken a privy. All he wanted was to sit down and close his eyes for a little.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Riding out of the massive St Anthony’s Gate, Baldwin felt his troubles fall away.

  It was two weeks since his beating at the hands of the Genoese, and most of his wounds were healing. As he bent to duck under a low building, his saddle creaking, he could feel the bruises complain, but that was all. Outside in the open air, past the shanty town that had sprung up about Acre’s walls, he felt refreshed, and it was with joy in his heart that he trotted at Roger Flor’s side.

  There were six others with them, all sailors from Roger’s Falcon.

  ‘We’ll head east, and see what we find,’ Roger said easily. He looked over at Baldwin, wondering. The Englishman sometimes was so sure of himself, like today, whereas on other occasions he could seem deliberately juvenile. ‘You never know what you might see, and it’s good to ensure that there are no spies about.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Baldwin said mildly. For his part, he was keen only to exercise. It was prodigiously hot, but he missed riding. Back at home he would ride every day, no matter what the weather, and he could feel his muscles growing flabby. ‘Will we have time for a gallop?’

  ‘Perhaps later,’ Roger said with a chuckle, relieved that the lad appeared to understand. There were some men who would be less keen on the idea of a raid against local houses. Maybe Baldwin was a man after his own heart. He might be young, but there was fire in his belly. ‘You are a keen horseman?’

  ‘Very. But at home the weather is not so hot. My land is cool.’

  ‘So is mine,’ Roger said. ‘At least here, when you ride, there is a purpose to it, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ Baldwin laughed.

  Roger suddenly lashed his horse into a canter, and the others spurred their beasts to keep up. This, he thought, would be a good day for a chevauchée. He looked over at Bernat and grinned.

  Baldwin was filled with the joy of comradeship. There was also a heady sense of freedom to be leaving the city. He was a man born to the country, and in Acre he was always aware of being hemmed in. The seas to south and west, the walls to north and east, left him with the impression of being imprisoned. This ride was a liberation.

  They rode on for several miles. To save the horses from overheating, they soon slowed to a trot, and the dust again caused Baldwin to cover his face. Before long, they were riding between two hills, and it was here that Roger slowed to a walk, rising to stand in his stirrups, and peering ahead with a frown.

  Baldwin could see nothing at first that could have caused the man to pause, but then he made out a dust cloud some distance away. Not enormous, certainly not caused by an army, but of a moderate size. Perhaps there was a slow-moving caravan.

  ‘Come on!’ Roger said. His blood was stirred at the sight of beasts in the sand. They must be carrying something for there to be so many – and whatever it was, it would be worth good besants in Acre. He gleefully anticipated a clash of arms.

  At first, Baldwin could make out little. The travellers were far distant, and the heat haze in these parts made any accurate assessment of people or horses utterly impossible.

  And then, as they came closer, he saw long-legged creatures. He had seen strange sights before when the land was hot, as though the air itself would reflect the landscape like rippling water. Occasionally a horse would look as though its legs had doubled in length, as he had noticed on that first ride with Roger.

  ‘Ready?’ Roger shouted suddenly. Then, with a yell, he swept out his sword, waved it over his head, and spurred his horse into a gallop.

  As the others screamed battle cries and pursued him, Baldwin’s beast laid his ears back and stretched his neck to join the race. Baldwin had not yet unsheathed his sword, but found himself crouching low over his mount’s neck, galloping for the sheer thrill of the wind in his hair, the snap and crackle of his cloak in the wind, the protests of leather and harness. The wind bore tiny grains of sand that stung his eyes and face like flying needles.

  The clattering of hooves on the roadway’s stones was deafening, but over it he heard the first cry.

  A blade whirled towards him, and he ducked, panicking, almost forgetting he bore a weapon. He grabbed at his sword, and had it free even as the Saracen came at him a second time. Baldwin felt a lurching horror in his belly that seemed to rise to his chest, but he forced it aside and concentrated on his opponent. Terror would only slow him.

  The Saracen was shorter than Baldwin, his black beard unfrosted, his eyes keen as he sliced again with his curved sword. Baldwin had to lurch back to avoid that horrible blade. He could imagine that if an arm or leg was snared by that, it would slice the limb away like a scythe, and at that hideous thought he lifted his sword into the True Gardant, his fist up and near his brow, the sword’s point dropping away from his hand, pointing down and away from him.

  The scythe-sword came back at him, the wicked outer curve aiming for his chest, and he dropped the point of his sword to defend himself. The man lifted his hand, and the point of the scimitar flicked upwards, almost eviscerating Baldwin as the point came towards his groin. He chopped down with his sword, knocking it down and away, and instantly lifted his point again, trying to cut the man’s thigh or groin, but both targets evaded him, and the two whirled about, their swords flashing in the sun as their horses moved this way and that.

  There was a brief cry of pain, and Baldwin and his opponent were distracted enough to glance about them.

  Baldwin felt his jaw drop. Three men lay on the ground, their bellies opened, their throats slashed. Hacked limbs littered the sand, while blood stained it black. And the man fighting him gave a sob and lunged.

  The attack caught Baldwin by surprise. The blade caught his right flank, and he felt it as a sharp pain, much like the lash of a whip. He didn’t realise that he was cut, but thought he had taken a slap from the flat of the blade.

  While the man’s attention was on his injury, a snarl on his face, Baldwin slammed the guard of his sword into his cheek. He felt the metal crush bone, and the man tumbled from his horse, stunned. He tried to rise, but before he could do so, one of Roger’s men turned and kicked him on the jaw, then stabbed him through the throat with a long-bladed dagger.

  Baldwin panted, lightheaded after the action, and was aware of a sudden relief. He had fought, and had not embarrassed himself. He had kept calm, and traded blows with the enemy. It was a source of pride – and then he felt a shiver run up his spine and a black reaction set in as he took in the bodies lying all about. None of the sailors was injured, so far as he could tell, but all the Saracens were dead. Their horses were docile enough, apart from one which had taken flight, and even now Roger was almost at it. He was soon trotting back, leading the horse by the reins.

  ‘Who were these?’ Baldwin said.

  ‘They’re Saracens who assumed the right to us
e a Christian road,’ Roger said with a grin. ‘And as a result, we’ve made good money. These horses can be sold, the arms and armour too. And then, their goods can be taken to market at Acre.’

  ‘What goods did they carry?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Roger said.

  Baldwin felt a sudden cold certainty: Ivo was right. These men preyed upon Saracens. They had launched their ferocious attack purely to rob an innocent party of travellers.

  And he had participated. He too was guilty.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Baldwin was struck with shame as he looked again at the murdered innocents. They had been carrying spices.

  ‘Look – balm!’ Roger said gleefully as he pulled a pot from a sack, opening the lid and holding it out. ‘Smell that! The Church will pay well for that – they use it in the censers. This is going to reward us well,’ he gloated as he rifled though the other packs.

  ‘So we came here to rob?’ Baldwin said.

  ‘We’re in Acre to take back the Holy Land. What, would you have us leave the Muslims here unhindered? That won’t help our cause, will it? We must harry them as we may. And this way, we increase the money in the coffers at Acre so we can fund more fighters. That cannot be bad.’

  Baldwin’s misgivings were not soothed by this glib response. Not that Roger appeared concerned whether Baldwin cared or not. His man Bernat was close now, eyeing Baldwin impassively.

  ‘I thought you were as keen to come as I was to invite you,’ Roger said. ‘It’s a shame if you’re not. Still, you will have your share of the booty.’

  ‘I want none of it,’ Baldwin said, staring at the man who had been his opponent. The fellow’s wounds were already covered with a seething mass of flies.